


Devotion

by ktenologious



Series: for the sake of you(r rotten corpse) [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Double Penetration, Headcanon galore, Human/Monster Romance, Human/Weapon 'Romance' more like, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, Sensory Deprivation, Sreng Gautiers, Tentacles, Weapons Kink, implied past Miklan/Sylvain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22595296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktenologious/pseuds/ktenologious
Summary: Relics aren’t a) pretty b) silent or c) independent, at all... Or maybe, that’s just the Lance of Ruin.Sylvain is quite devout. His devotion is just aimed at somethingelse.
Relationships: Lance of Ruin/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: for the sake of you(r rotten corpse) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792621
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Points up at the pairing tag, the Lance of Ruin took over my hands and wrote this. Honestly though, they gave me a weapon that moves, and I'm expected to do nothing with it? Oh no, I don't think so. This is the worst thing you will ever read. Be prepared.
> 
>  **Warnings:** a really weird premise, Relics’ backstory spoilers, Sreng headcanons, kind of normalization of abuse because of mental illness (i guess??), implied incest, mentioned monsterfucking and vouyerism (like, it is suggested), brainwashing works too? One line of shock play, one line of asphyxiation, tentacles, double penetration, stuffing? Character death, terrible porn, bad very bad terrible writing.

It all starts because Miklan sleepwalks.

No. Pause. Rewind. It does not start there. Maybe, it starts with Crests, except Sylvain has never heard of anyone else with a Crest ever dealing with this mess, historically or otherwise. Maybe it is exclusively a Gautier thing, but that would mean the Crest of Gautier is special, which it is not, so the idea is discarded as well. That just leaves him with _his_ family line, which leaves very little option on where the problem originates from.

So, it all starts because Sreng mind magic and Crests don’t mix well.

Maybe that was obvious. Maybe that is why they are constantly at war with each other, he doesn’t know, he actually _likes_ Sreng, but only the frozen desert part of it. Some of his cousins are there, and if he wasn’t a Gautier with a Crest he would have left long, long ago. But, well, that is what he is —a Gautier with a Crest—, and there is the problem.

Because Sreng mind magic and Crests don’t mix well, at all.

It isn’t even proper mind magic, their family line lost that skill _ages_ ago, but by that point it was also a _thing_ practically written in their blood. It isn’t very useful, it just helps… manage, stuff. It helps to cope with _things_ better, emotions and memories and urges and instincts, neatly arranged in boxes or honeycombs or towers or _whatever_. He wants to teach it to Dimitri and Felix and all his friends, _badly_ , but he honestly doesn’t know how to do it. He was born like this, he _really_ doesn’t know, but it really, _really_ helps.

Only problem is, it really doesn’t work well with Crests for some or other reason. Because while Crests were mostly physical, there was also a _meta_ physical component to them, mostly in whatever triggered the reaction between Crest and Relic. It was like a tiny, very tiny and very loose link at the back of your mind that, when you held a Relic, connected to the matching link. If they didn’t fit, it wouldn’t trigger, and it would remain unused, but it was _there_.

Sylvain had studied this, somewhat. He had watched known Crest bearers with their Relics when they trained, and read about it in some journals written about the topic, but no one went deep into the topic, so he assumed no one really knew much about it. He doesn’t know much about it. _Garreg Mach_ doesn’t know much about it. It is truly annoying.

But well. When you mixed Sreng mind compartmentalization and the Crest-Relic links, you always end up with a ‘mind block’ dedicated entirely to the link. It doesn’t matter how big the block is or what the shape is, there will always be a point of your mind that is _constantly aware of the Relic_.

And that. That is annoying. Because Relics aren’t a) pretty b) silent or c) independent, at all.

...Or maybe, that’s just the Lance of Ruin. Again, Sylvain only has his own experiences to go with, and his Relic is _pretty damn needy_.

And that circles back to Miklan’s sleepwalking, because, you see, Miklan was _meant to have a Crest_. It happens rarely, but it happens: the body and mind prepare themselves to receive the Crest, but for some or other reason it doesn’t show up. A recessive Crest, if one could call it that, like a dormant illness. And since Miklan was a Gautier with mind compartmentalization ready for a Crest since birth, he ended up with a part of his mind dedicated to the Relic, which never got used for _anything_ but the Relic, and insisted on _doing things_ to find fulfillment.

 _That_ was why their parents never did much about his anger, or jealousy, or why Sylvain still loved his brother until the very end even through all the abuse. Because, in the end, he couldn’t really help it: when he noticed he was doing it, he _tried_ to stop it, but he was labelled as a hard to manage case since the very start. He had had a part of his head constantly moving on with pure animalistic instinct and rage (kind of like he had been as a Demonic Beast, actually), which only calmed down when he was near the Lance, and that made him want nothing else than to _rip Sylvain apart_.

(One night, Sylvain had woken up to Miklan petting his hair. He had braced for a fight, but Miklan just looked sad: he looked tired, exhausted, like he did whenever he didn’t look angry. Sylvain asked what happened, and Miklan had confessed and apologized.

His exact words had been: “ _half the time I want to make you small and put you inside my chest so nothing happens to you ever again, the other half I just want to rip into you with my teeth, or nails, or my cock. Sorry you got me as a brother._ ”

 _No knives?_ Sylvain asked, because if he was going to be killed, wouldn’t it be more practical to use a knife?

 _Nah. Knives are boring, I want to_ feel _you._ And, if he has to be honest, Sylvain hadn’t been all that scared when Miklan wrapped a hand around his neck and felt around for his pulse. _It’s warm. And constant. Calming._

They just laid there, Miklan feeling his pulse, Sylvain looking out the window without a care for the world. It was summer, so the sky had been clear, with a bright moon and stars; it had also been one of the few weeks in their life Father hadn’t beaten them bloody with training, and while half asleep, there was no medicine clouding Sylvain’s judgement. _Warm. Constant. Calming._

He ended up ruining it a while later though, by asking:

_So, which one is it now?_

Don’t let it _ever_ be said Sylvain did nothing for his brother.)

And that’s Miklan explained. Now, why is sleepwalking important?

Because it was really, _really_ tiring.

It went on for _years_. Sylvain waking up in the middle of the night, finding his brother sleeping next to him, gnawing on his arm or his shoulder or anything he had available. Their parents, waking up to a worried stable boy, saying that Miklan took the horses in the middle of the night _again._ Finding the door of the armory opened _from the inside_ to find Miklan sleeping with the Lance in his arms.

It was the next level of sleepwalking. He was _possessed_. And Sylvain and his parents knew who was to blame, but what were they supposed to do about it? Their mother was Gautier, but she was from a branch family, she knew nothing of _sentient_ lances of all things. Their father _hated_ the Lance with a passion, even if he would give up the life of half a child and one whole adult for it, and claimed it to be the most important member of the family when it was in the room.

Sylvain? Sylvain went and asked.

Now, Sylvain… he doesn’t dream much. Most of his family don’t dream much, because Srenge people don’t do that. Most of his dreams are, have always been made of vague sounds and images of sand and frozen deserts, a wall made of mountains and storms he sees every time he looks east, and his family.

And then there are the ones that are _not_ dreams, more meditation-while-sleeping than anything: those ‘dreams’ where he goes to visit the spaces in his mind to think, or alternatively goes lose his sanity to go where his Crest —and the Lance of Ruin— are.

Did he mention already that Relics aren’t pretty, silent or independent, at all? Because they really aren’t. Or maybe he is biased for the Lance, and all the others _are_ , but he will never know because if he dares touch another Relic in this lifetime he will probably be eaten. Quite literally. In little bits.

The Lance of Ruin is a writhing mass of nothingness and bone and earth and ancient songs, like tiny _tiny_ neverending snakes trying to shape something as a collective and constantly failing when they fall and fall and fall into the great abyss under it; they will snap at each other at times, or try to reach him, or try to slither towards his mind only to be tugged back by the collective mass of tendrils only for another one to try it once again. They are all coiled up around the metaphysical representation of his Minor Crest (it is currently Sylvain himself as a plush doll, but it used to change), looking like slimy, rotting _something_ as they decay and fall into the abyss, only for a new one to show up again and again and _again_.

The first time he saw it up close was when he was asking about Miklan. Before that, the Lance had always been an unobtrusive presence in the back of his mind that he felt on the way to his dreams, or on the way to his meditation. It helped at times, leading his movements when training or if he was doing something interesting, and very rarely it nudged him towards books, but it was otherwise really quiet.

And so, the first time he saw it closely, he was rightfully terrified. It was _ugly_ , like the creatures Miklan told him about when little, and scary, made of shadows and bone and blood and decay.

However, its voice was really soft.

 _Syl. Sylvain._ Quiet and unassuming, like the flutter of butterfly wings or the rare snow flurry. _Come wield me?_

“Hm. Not yet?” He watched as two snakes —they were more of tendrils, really, just long lines of nothing— came closer to him, crawling up his legs so it could pull him closer. A claw came out of the mass, settling near his waist, and Sylvain looked at it in fear.

Surely, he was safe in his own mind?

 _Why, then?_ The voice was a little childish, crystalline, something he would have expected from a fairy in a book and not from an abomination of a weapon.

“It- It is about, Miklan?” The second clawed hand appeared, effortlessly getting under his collar to settle on his shoulder, slowly dragging him closer. He was above the abyss then; pretty sure it was no longer quite his mind, but also not… _not_ his mind —he had been right in the end, but the explanation would not come for a while.

_What about Miklan?_

“Can you-“ No, that was the wrong question. He was in danger, some warning sign lighting itself up in the back of his head. “Why do you need him?”

_Hm. War is over. Hungry._

“You can’t _eat_ my brother!” He didn’t mind that he was pulled in. He didn’t notice that he was surrounded by tiny rotten snakes, that he was held in place and unable to escape; he didn’t notice the weariness settling on his shoulders, like the weight of the world and all responsibilities he did not know about.

 _Who else?_ He also did not notice the very obvious bait.

“You can eat me- Not now! I’m small, but-“

 _ **Deal**_.

And that was how Miklan’s sleepwalking and Sylvain’s own desperate stupidity cursed his future. Granted, he has never been able to say _no_ to the Lance, he hasn’t even tried, so a few years after that he had locked himself up in a room with it and been ‘eaten’. It was _good_ , really good, Miklan watched for some reason, he still doesn’t remember what happened, but it was _good_.

The Lance has always _been_ there. It is needy, clingy, kind of like an ex, or a possessive girlfriend. It gets jealous when he fights with other lances, or axes, or any kind of weapon, but doesn’t mind magic. It finds his father really funny ( _hatchlings are not that hard to come by, are they?_ ), enjoyed Miklan’s mood swings and considers Sylvain to be the superior egg warmer.

Whatever the _heck_ that means.

He honestly missed the Lance, when he had left for Garreg Mach. And, well, he also _knows_ that his parents weren’t surprised by Miklan taking the Lance, because it was either _that_ or Sylvain himself. He doesn’t know what they had been expecting by asking _his_ class to go get it back, but he knew what _he_ was expecting and hadn’t been surprised at all when Miklan kept aiming for him.

What he _hadn’t_ been expecting had been the odd and surreal moment when Miklan’s useless Crest-Relic link clicked in place, and the Lance in his hands cackled like the sound of glass shattering, and the Lance in _Sylvain’s_ mind _screamed in pain_.

_No- ...in-_

Sylvain watched his brother change into a bastardization of his Lance’s usual coiled form that kept trying to grab him and pull him into whatever transformation was happening, and he... didn’t want to evade, not really. He struggled with keeping the thought of _moving away_ at the forefront of his mind; when he saw it, he wanted to be pulled in, wanted to let the Lance have its way with him inside its mass of writhing nothingness, and wanted his brother back too. If he had been alone, if someone hadn’t pulled him away or yelled at him, he would have let it take him in, because…

 _calmquietpeacesylguardprotect_ destr-

The second form was a giant beast, spikey and armored and angry looking, and, okay, it was very Miklan. It was all rage and animalistic instincts, trying to rip into Sylvain, and it was definitely his brother. Holding back even, if he understood the Lance’s (the physical half) happy giggling right.

Sylvain wanted to cry.

He didn’t let anyone hold the Lance after the battle ended, only because he didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of anyone accidentally hanging on to the link Miklan had left open. He also didn’t let them burn Miklan, just looked at them all until they got the idea and left.

“Damn it.” He knelt next to _his brother_ , patting down his hair and taking the necklace made of bone Miklan always kept on him. Meanwhile, next to Sylvain, the Lance collapsed into its usual black _ooze_ rotten form, spreading atop Miklan like a blanket. “Hungry?”

_No. Miklan is mine, too._

“You really don’t like burials, uh.”

They left a short while later, the Lance whispering soft comforting words while Sylvain put together a patchwork shield where Miklan had tried to drag his mind down. It had been… weird, connecting to the Lance’s collective himself —overwhelmingly terrible, in a way, hearing his brother whispering right in his head and the countless other voices of the unworthy. He never wanted to experience it again.

As a whole, that had been a bad day. Felix had looked at him and told him to drop the mask, so Sylvain just smiled wider. He had to give the Lance back to his father (the Archbishop had wanted to take it, apparently. The Lance itself had snapped at her), and even though he could hear it whining in the distance, he still missed it. He took a whole week’s break (officially, he was in his mourning period. Unofficially, he was looking for a way to lower his room’s temperature to tolerable levels) before he went back to class, but it took a whole month for his mind to go back to its usual state.

_Focus._

And now he is here.

Slipping out of his room and dorms isn’t hard, but stealing the Lance of Ruin from the class armory… it is a little hard. Not because the armory is guarded or anything, but rather because Dimitri and Felix and the Professor have odd hours and tend to _patrol_. Why can’t they just go out and have fun, he doesn’t know, but it _sure_ is annoying when he has to hide from Felix for the third time this night because Felix had, very knowingly, gone to check on Sylvain and thus _knew_ he was trying to sneak out.

One of the Lance’s spikes moves close to his ear, and he has to stop himself from throwing it far, _far_ away. It is a surprisingly loving touch, not that he can tell anyone, thank you, but he had been really surprised the first time he had realized it. It is a Lance, yet it can be really cute. The spikes aren’t soft, or nice to look at, but he has probably become oversensitized to them by now. Even the Lance’s writhing mass form works for him, because he is a freak, and this is _his_ Lance.

Still, they need to go out, and distractions aren’t fun, so he ends up stroking the flat of the blade with his thumb while waiting. He accidentally-on-purpose nicks his finger with the blade and smears some blood on one of the spikes, if only to hear the quiet and thankful way his name is uttered inside his head.

He might kind of like that. A lot. People don’t usually thank him, not this honestly.

Hm. This might be a little unhealthy.

Doesn’t matter, because the coast is clear and he can go, now!

He runs, out of the Monastery and through a gap on the town’s walls and into the woods, hoping no one saw him, that no one followed him- yet the perverse idea that it wouldn’t be _that_ bad if he was followed is suddenly shoved into his thoughts.

It would be bad. Very, _very_ bad.

_Hm. Maybe._

The idea gets planted deeper into his mind as he tries to find a comfortable place, along with some other ideas he is not… quite sure about; he will learn about them later, probably. He tries to reason, because how about they _don’t_ go down that way (it happened once, never again), because he has no idea what it even looks like from outside- _pretty, cute_ , it tells him as an image of him crying in front of a mirror flashes before his eyes- no, no, that’s not right, he is supposed to be manly, right, also when did that happen?

 _Some time ago, after that lady with the fake hair._ Oh, her. Boring. He had been really drunk, so maybe that had been it. He is still not pretty, or cute.

While the Lance rummages through his mind looking for something, Sylvain finally finds somewhere comfortable he can lean against, and hits his head against the tree trunk, three times because none of this would have happened had he not been an idiot. Which he is. _Shit_ , he is probably the most stupid Relic owner in the world, maybe he _should_ run to Sreng.

Once he is done punishing himself, he settles against the tree, holds the Lance close and runs a single finger up the polished finish and to the base spike. It is also the thinnest, so he can curl said finger around it to bother the Lance doing whatever it is doing in his head —it jumps, turning its attention back to him for a second with the impression of a _wait_ before going back to slithering around his memories. He really doesn’t like that, so if he ends up with his lips against the Crest Stone, moving his lips in the shape of the Lance’s true name, it is only because he is upset.

He really hates that thing, okay.

The Lance hates what he is doing too, and apparently hates him as well, because it shoves a bunch of images that _definitely did not happen_ of him being mounted by a wild Demonic Beast at least four times his size (so, not that strong, _why_ is he doing this; still _ouch_ ), then a _wyvern_ , then a- is that a _Dragon_ , there are _no Dragons left-_ the image of the neverending storm at the border with Sreng and a feathery thing in the sand- no, he is not believing this, nope- another image of just a Levin Sword and what does that even mean- _you like weapons?_ You are different, you are in my mind- a new image of Sylvain getting fucked silly atop a certain shield he will never be able to look at again- no, no, no to all of these- _the sword too?_ We can reconsider magic- _thank you, Sylvain!_

A small, very very small shock of electricity runs from the Lance to Sylvain, and he clings to it until it passes. He is gasping for breath, but also most definitely feeling _something_ , and he will need to experiment with this later when he is not, you know, _outside_ , but for now he just wants-

_Touch?_

Yes, exactly that.

(This is so unhealthy.)

His hands fly over to the spikes and they twist in his hold, somehow trying to get the most contact possible without triggering anything _too_ weird. The Crest Stone he leaves alone, because he hates it and how it pulses along with his heartbeat, but the various ridges and carvings are free for him to rub his thumbs over and dig his nails into, and if he accidentally-for-real-this-time cuts himself with the blade while doing so, then he doesn’t really care.

The thing with the Lance is that it is _needy_. Its hunger manifests mostly as bloodlust, but there are times when it becomes just a _need_ to be useful. It is a weapon, after all. If there is no war going on, if it is not being used to _kill_ things (which Sylvain is not currently doing, because he is not going to lower his Lance to kill mere bandits with), then it wants to be touched, and it wants to touch things, and in general it wants to _feel_ things. It isn’t that hard to fulfill that need, because in the end it is a Lance, but it is also… not. Because while it is a Lance, it is also a full entity that thinks, and feels, and feels _way more_ than most people.

Enter gluttony and lust. It is _possessive_ , and it loves the people it considers its possessions. The Gautier and those ‘unworthy’, those who had been transformed into Beasts as Miklan had been a few months back; since most of those ‘unworthy’ had once been Gautier of the Sreng line, they were, and are, part of the collective, and they fulfil the gluttony part for the Lance in the distance. Sylvain had made a bad move, or maybe a really good one, because his hypersexuality _is_ grateful, but also he is bound to the Lance until the end now, and he serves as the _lust_ part. Every once in a while, when the Lance whined enough or just because he felt like it, he would sneak out of wherever he was and give himself up, again and again and again.

It doesn’t help that, while the Lance is in his hands and while it is attentive, what each of them feel just echoes inside his mind: he can feel ghostly hands on him, the lightest of touches becoming like feathers teasing his sides and his legs.

He is absolutely disgusting.

_Sylvain is mine. Not disgusting._

He sighs, content with just grinding against the Lance’s shaft for now, his hands still plucking and rubbing at the spikes like he was playing an instrument. It is cold, and quiet, and he is resting against a tree, keeping his weapon in place between his legs and holding it close with his elbow. What would anyone say if they saw him? _Disgusting._

 _No,_ the Lance whispers, echoing in both his mind and ears, sounding breathless in its own way. It is flooding his mind with reassuring thoughts, and though his mind will loop back to his self-doubt and hatred the next time this happens, it works. He lets out a laugh, only because it is acting like a petulant child like it often does, and leans in to take one of the spikes into his mouth.

It does nothing for him, sucking on it, though the way it presses against his tongue feels like an unnatural sort of kiss. He knows what it is, even when he has never had it confirmed —there aren’t many ways for a weapon to carry around a sentient metaphysical entity with it, no matter its age, and the Lance isn’t subtle at all—, and while the idea of putting it anywhere near him was weird at first, he did get used to the taste of _ash_ bone _stone_ blood it was made of.

He hopes he doesn’t do any damage to it, it has lived so long, it should continue living a thousand years more.

 _Good Sylvain, my Sylvain- Look at me._ The voice is commanding, the presence inside his mind forcing him to _look_ and watch as the Crest Stone pulses, and he hates it, black spilling from it, and he hates it some more, because it is like in his nightmares, like when he has to kill his own brother again and again and again, like when the black matter _does_ reach him and he is pulled in but it is not safe- _Don’t think about it, don’t._

He doesn’t think about it.

The Lance collapses on itself, becoming a single sphere of _black_ ooze _rotten_ blood, the one spike still in his mouth now moving sinuously around his tongue in a true kiss he will regret later. The sphere pulsates, uncoiling a mass of small, thread-like and _sickening_ tendrils that flutter around Sylvain’s limbs and crawl under his clothes.

He shudders, dropping to his knees so he can get comfortable. That never gets any better, like tiny legs walking up his limbs and under his skin, making each millimeter they touch go numb and useless. The Lance likes him better unresponsive at first, a complete takeover before it gives back control, though it also likes to pretend Sylvain can defend against this —then again, maybe it _does_ think that, he has never actually talked to it about this. All he knows is his limbs disappear from his senses, then his whole body, and then he is locked inside his mind for a few minutes.

It was terrifying, the very first time. He barely remembers it: all he had to go with were Miklan’s and the Lance’s own words, of how he suddenly went limp, only twitching occasionally while the Lance’s cursed body continued to take _taketake_ him, while the inside of his head and mind was ravaged by a wild beast that was too _hot_ too _cold_ ash _bone_ stone _blood_ and melting _ancient_ ice _cracked_ abyss _earth_ magma all at once. That had also been the only time he had been pulled far too deep into the Lance’s true self —not the collective, but the greater, overwhelming being below it all—, and while the Lance says it had been an accident, Sylvain does not believe it at all.

One day he will fall once more, sinking in the depths of earth and a presence greater than life, and he will remain there completely unaware of the world while his body goes on until it forgets what he was and he is, what he is meant for and to be, forget that he was once sentient and human and become something else. Who knows, maybe he will prefer it better if he is gone and cannot know what life and time and matter is, are, would be.

He has grown used to it, to the way his body fades from his awareness. Especially to the earthquake in his mind as he falls and falls and falls, to the claws digging into his thoughts and pulling him _forward_ -

 _Pay attention_ , the Lance snaps its jaws at him, pulsating before his eyes like a ball of writhing mating snakes. With each pulse, more black matter _ooze_ rotten _blood_ comes free, some landing on the ground and some trickling down his knees, never quite disconnecting from their main source no matter how far they land. They look ugly, repulsive, like giant centipedes or worms, and they are all making their way to Sylvain like he is a tasty, tasty meal.

 _Yes. Mine, ever and forever._ It continues its current task, which it considers utterly unnecessary because clothes are the most annoying invention ever ( _Sylvain is mine, I can keep him inside myself?_ ), even when it admits to enjoy unwrapping its present, because that is what he _is_. He thinks this would all go faster if he undressed _before_ , but it’s not good enough, apparently, he does not understand anything it does.

The feeler the Lance has in his mouth has grown larger by now, maybe the thickness of three fingers, and it continues using him as it pleases —as it should be. It thrusts in and out, faster then slowing down, rubbing his tongue and carelessly hitting the back of his throat like he didn’t need it; he had choked and coughed and teared up at first, but when it tried to pull out he sent a mental warning, a plea he refuses to say out loud, and it continued. It feels _good_ , makes Sylvain close his eyes and imagine an actual man holding his head and fucking his mouth- the Lance quickly discards that image, stabs it in his mind and throws it away, and makes its limb extend and twist in a way no human being could ever do (maybe a snake, or a lizard, or something with a really long tongue) right before it pulses once, like something just went through it really quick. A new flavor fills Sylvain’s mouth along with a viscous substance he has never felt before.

Again, he chokes and ends up swallowing part of the thing because the Lance just _won’t let him breathe_ , only pulling out once it feels his throat close. The majority of it ends up on his lap, some dribbling down his chin as he didn’t manage to cough out all of it. It looks and moves like thick oil, and it is a color between translucent gray and red. The taste, though. It tasted like _ash_ and _sand_ and _smoke of forest fires_ with a sweet aftertaste that reminds him of the smell of old blood, of charred meat and, for some reason, gold.

This is new, completely new, and he is not sure he likes it.

He would have shoved the Lance away already, but his arms are useless, the numb sensation at his shoulders while the tiny hands with no fingers work at undoing his shirt. He ends up glaring at the Crest Stone where it is glowing an angry red on a cushion of _black_ mad _black_ instead, and the Crest Stone blinks at him once before it goes still.

Cursing, Sylvain turns his mind inwards. He trusts the Lance to at least defend his body, because it _belongs to it_ or whatever, so he just gets past the various layers until he gets to the deepest space of his mind where his Crest is. He finds the writhing mass of nothingness and earth and bone and songs there, still coiled in its usual way —it feels like an echo of spirals and old words, a dull lack of fear of his dreams-not-dreams, and claws digging between his ribs.

That is the Lance of Ruin. That has been the Lance of Ruin since birth. And people wonder why he acts like this?

“What the fuck?” He doesn’t yell, because he doesn’t need to. It is his own mind after all, even if it has been the lounging place of this ancient entity since his birth.

_I thought you liked that._

“Well-“ He does. He knows. _It_ knows, very well, because it is also a voyeuristic creep. “You- you’re supposed to ask.”

 _No. You are mine._ Meaning it doesn’t need to ask anything. It is kind of right too, because Sylvain will do anything for it. Exhibit A: this whole situation. It halts for a second, then continues speaking: _Besides, other men do it, why not me too?_

Sylvain wants very badly to ask if it was male when it was alive.

“...Can you at least warn me?”

The feeling of claws wrapping around his ribs and digging into his lungs grows stronger, and his consciousness is suddenly pulled right next to the Lance’s; he is too close, close enough he can hear the voices of the unworthy still linked to it, scattered around Sreng and northern Fódlan, a constant mutter of _no no no_ or _make me stronger_ or _I’ll show them_. He can hear them all, and he needs to go _back_ , right now, before he goes too low, before he goes insane, before he forgets who he is, before he _gives in_ -

A single claw reaches out of the mass of _thoughtsmadnesspowerhungry_ , a single claw like a whole continent moving and the fall into a great chasm. It slams into his weak, frail human mind, not like the usual careless rummaging it does with its small limbs, but _destroying_ everything in its path, pushing it aside as if nothing else mattered.

The voice that rings in his head is louder and clearer than ever:

_**Obey me.** _

“Yes.”

(The response is immediate, almost instinctive, a reverent whisper from one devoted human to his Deity.)

Sylvain gets pushed back forwards, the heavy overwhelming presence retreating to its usual deep, deep abyss once more. It leaves him feeling empty, with an almost uncontrollable need to be filled more than usual. He needs something inside him, in any way, before he starts eating himself from the inside out.

He wonders if this was what Miklan felt like, when he said he _needed_ to rip into Sylvain and tear him apart in whichever way. If it was an urge as untolerable like this, then he understands Miklan more now. He feels restless, he needs to do something, and that something will probably involve the Lance.

He returns to find his body already not-his, but he can still watch out of his eyes so it is not quite over just yet. He can still see the forest around him, the black _rotten_ oozing tendrils quickly weaving together above his head to close the cocoon of Lance that is how it often takes him. He would have preferred a bed, but risking discovery for the extra recovery time is stupid- he can nap in class if he needs to, it isn’t like he hasn’t already studied the whole syllabus.

The cocoon closes, the Crest Stone settling in a comfortable spot somewhere close to Sylvain’s head. It is cooing and whispering sweet words —he has no idea what is happening to the rest of his body, and he doesn’t want to know just yet. One of the tiny, tiny fingerless hands touches his eye, so he closes them, and he knows nothing but his mind.

(He should have asked what that thing was. He _swallowed_ it, what if it was something poisonous? He has no idea what the Lance was before being a, well, Lance. Maybe some kind of big lizard, so, venom? What if it was leftovers from an old meal? Liquified human- No, no, better not think about it. Not thinking about it!

_About what?_

That thing- Aren’t you supposed to be outside?

_I can be in both places at once?_

But you don’t often.

_No. It gives me a headache. Horn ache. Heh. You are loud._

You mute sounds, don’t you?

_What if I want someone to find you?_

...what?

_Maybe your prince, or Aegis’ boy- Or the King of Beasts…_

Please say you’re joking.

 _It’s okay, my Sylvain, I will still be here even if someone else ruins you._ )

He suddenly gets shoved back in control to the excruciating pleasure of two thick, hard and slick lengths fucking him merciless, hitting his protate at alternating rhythms and leaving him no time to breathe. Not that he can breathe, seeing as there is another limb squeezing the air from his neck very carefully. His arms are behind his back, held tightly in place around a replica of the physical Lance (nice?), while his legs are bent before him, spiraling black keeping them that way.

He has maybe half a second to get his situation before he goes back to trying to scream. Everything is _too much_ , heck, his cock is _wrapped in tendrils_ like someone would wrap an injury in bandages, one even going into the slit, who knows how deep it is, but it is _too much_.

He sobs when his throat is released again, completely broken even if he might not have felt the beginning. His body feels and he knows what the Lance is capable of, and the very, _very sudden_ onslaught of sensation is definitely not anything new but not anything he will _ever_ get used to.

At least he doesn’t feel empty anymore, but maybe now he feels too full. The two _tentacles_ , because there is no other word for them, inside him slow down, one of them curling _so deep_ inside he _knows_ it is going somewhere it shouldn’t. He calls for the Lance, cries its name both in and out of his head, desperately asking it to _stop and get out_ , but it just stays where it is.

_Sylvain, pretty, cute, Sylvain._

The worst weapon in the world is back to pretending it can be tender at something, trying the kiss thing again, and Sylvain is too tired to stop it. It is clearly a distraction, but he is so _tired_ he will take the distraction gladly, focusing on the fake tongue so he doesn’t have to focus on the fake dicks inside him. It is soft, warm somehow, tastes of blood and ash which is better than nothing and makes him groan around it as it teases him happily.

He feels like there are a hundred hands touching him, fluttery soft caresses all over his body and lose embraces of limbs with no bones. He is still sensitive, still at the edge of an orgasm the Lance refuses to give him and _it hurts_ , but everything has slowed down.

And then the tentacle that is _too deep inside him_ spurts something out.

He tries to bite at the tendril in his mouth so he can get away, but it just gets shoved deeper inside, forcing him to give up and relax. He tries to struggle away but the loving embraces become deadly vices. He tries to kick _anything_ away, but the mass of black swirling up his legs climbs a bit higher to keep him in place. All he is left with is crying, and he _hates it_.

 _Cute-_ No, he hates it- _Pretty_ \- Take it out- _No, must prepare-_ For what!? _Hm…_

The _thing_ continues releasing as it starts moving out, slowly, slow, _ridiculously_ slow. He is being filled completely by this _new_ thing the Lance won’t tell him about, so much it feels like nothing more will fit in, like he won’t be able to _walk_ without it coming out for days, because he is not going to be able to get it all out on his own, no. He feels heavy, stuffed, like he will look down and see his abdomen bulging out- he is _not_ looking down.

The worst is, he can’t say he doesn’t like it. He is a _freak._

The longer tentacle finally pulls out, but the other stays in. The one in his mouth releases him as well, and he can _finally_ curse at the Lance like he has been meaning to for a while:

“Fuck you-!”

_Yes._

He sobs. Everything is soft now, but he still hasn’t come, he still has a thing inside him, he is still filled with unknown fluids of mysterious origins. The Lance is cradling him like it means to lull him to sleep, arranging him in a comfortable position before releasing his limbs and his body. Sylvain leans his head back against the cushion of unnatural mass behind him and _doesn’t look down_ , deciding to focus on the Crest Stone for now.

“Why-”

_It is alright, Sylvain._

He seriously doesn’t understand what it means. He just looks at it through teary eyes, clenches his fist on his leg, and waits for the surprise.

He doesn’t have to wait for long, as once the Lance is done getting him comfortable, it finally releases his aching cock and Sylvain has two seconds to brace himself before he is crying out again as the remaining tentacle _finally_ moves- it is far more intense than usual, especially through all that is _inside_ him, and it doesn’t take long for him to let out a shriek that will haunt him (via Lance) for the rest of his life and spill on his chest.

He passes out.

_Sylvain dreams of sand and ice and neverending storms and a person with green-brown hair that makes cracks on the ground as they walk; he dreams of the endless abyss chasm between continents and a kingdom built atop its walls; he dreams of a long forgotten song and a tomb hidden between rocks._

_Sylvain rarely has dreams of his own, because the people of Sreng don’t dream. His dreams have always been the Lance’s, so he knows what he sees: memories restored, words recovered. An identity remade._

_Even if just one person in the world, he is glad he can help._

Sylvain wakes to the morning sun, almost completely naked and wrapped around the Lance of Ruin, covered in a coat of heavy wool and geometric designs he had thought long, long lost. It is warm and smells familiar, still has the stale smell of a wardrobe that was rarely used and that cold feel of fresh snow.

It used to belong to his brother.

He sits up, then lays down. _Pain_. He covers himself with the coat; he’s not moving from here ever again.

 _I’m sorry_ , the Lance says, its voice closer than it usually is. _I did not know what else to do._

“Huh… You are more articulate today.” It is a very telling difference, between the usual short and cutting sentences it says. If it needs long sentences, it will take a short while to think about them. “Also, this?”

 _I remembered I had it._ A mental shrug, a flash of Miklan standing on a block of ice. _He gave it to me, I do not remember why. He… said it was a gift?_

“You had it with you since then?” The coat had been missing for so long now, it probably doesn’t fit Sylvain. Still, he is keeping it, he might be able to fix it for something else, it was his _brother’s_.

The Lance remains silent while he traces the designs on its back. Lots of triangles, because Miklan’s mind was pyramids, in black and red and gray, because he was a Gautier. He had always been so angry and tired, and Sylvain only made it worse, and he hadn’t even mourned properly-

He is a terrible brother.

_Do not beat yourself up over it. You do it often enough when I’m not around._

“Yes, well, I hate myself.”

_Acceptance is the first step to self-healing, my mother always said._

Sylvain wants to ask. He really wants to ask, but he had pried enough by getting into the Lance’s dreams already, seeing something he had no right no see. Instead, he rests his hands on its spikes, and pretends it isn’t reaching up to get the most of the contact it can get.

They sit there for a while.

“We should head back.”

_Hm…_

“What did you _do_.”

_You might want to… clean yourself first._

Oh. Right, that, _shit_ he had forgotten, Felix is going to kill him, he had class this morning, he is going to die.

There is only one solution.

“Let’s run to Sreng.”

_Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> I did say it would be the worst thing you will ever read. I hope it was to your enjoyment though. This was dubbed 'sreng propaganda' in my files, and it is the first one out of... uh, maybe four? But I might not share them because they aren't good. Also, please tell me what else to tag, because as you know I'm not good at this.
> 
> Come yell at me @ ktenologious in Twitter!


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